


Wish You Were Here

by Grandeur_Raconteur



Series: Rock and Roll (Led Zeppelin, 1971, Led Zeppelin IV, Side A) [1]
Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Doctor Strange (Comics), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M, Peter Parker Has a Family, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Stephen Strange Needs a Hug, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, slow burn IronStrange
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-06-19 01:06:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15498879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grandeur_Raconteur/pseuds/Grandeur_Raconteur
Summary: Hallucinations of his dead father had haunted Peter for years. Symptoms of trauma, a child psychologist told his Aunt and Uncle with a well-practiced sympathetic smile on her saccharine face. A natural result from surviving the car accident.Except Peter just saw his father, and he was very much alive.With the help of his mentor, Tony Stark, and the mysterious figure, Doctor Stephen Strange, Peter is going to have to delve into new details from a painful history to uncover the truth...





	1. Another Brick in the Wall (Part 1)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! A few notes before we get started: I love Aunt May and Pepper Potts, so I will not be ignoring them in this fic. I know Tony and Pepper are supposed to be back together at the end of Homecoming, but with the way the timeline was so screwed in Homecoming and how terribly they did it, I am working off the idea that they are still on a break as they were in Civil War. Aunt May and Uncle Ben are, as far as I am concerned, Peter's parents in that they raised him. This story will be focusing on him discovering more about his birth parents, however, and his developing father/son bond with Tony and Stephen. 
> 
> Also, please check the endnotes with each update, as I will have a little bit of a teaser for the upcoming chapter.
> 
> And last but certainly not least, a HUGE thank you to merelypassingtime for betaing this, talking plot with me, and for her endless abundance of encouragement.

_Daddy's flown across the ocean_

_Leaving just a memory_

_Snapshot in the family album_

_Daddy what else did you leave for me?_

 

~"Another Brick in the Wall (Part 1)," Pink Floyd, _The Wall_ , November 30, 1979.

  


   For a moment, Peter thought he saw his father.

   It wasn’t the first time it had happened, in the years since he’d begun to live with Uncle Ben and Aunt May. It actually used to happen pretty frequently in the beginning; seeing him through the window as they were sitting down to eat, or watching from an aisle in Delmar’s Deli when Uncle Ben took him to get sandwiches. Symptoms of trauma, a child psychologist told them with a well-practiced sympathetic smile on her saccharine face. A natural result from surviving the car accident. May had questioned why he’d see his father, who was still alive, rather than the mother he lost in the crash.

   “Maybe because the bastard abandoned him,” his uncle supplied, the loathing in his voice palpable even to a six-year-old.

   May threw him an admonishing look, gesturing to Peter, and Ben gave him an apologetic smile and ruffled his hair.

   Uncle Ben’s hatred for Peter’s father was not a secret, even though Ben had tried not to show it for his nephew’s sake. He really did. It was just that, well, it was kind of his father’s fault that they crashed. He’d been driving, at least, and had admitted to having a whiskey before they left, though he’d been well within the legal blood alcohol content limit. That never placated Uncle Ben, though, who had lost his only sister as a result, the loss of whom was keenly felt even if they bordered on estranged. The two hadn’t talked much for several years, mostly due to her choice in husband. His uncle had never been a fan of his brother-in-law, the reasons for which had never been revealed to Peter. Ben’s opinion had only worsened substantially following the accident and his father’s subsequent decision to leave Peter with Ben and May while he tried to get their life back together. Still, his aunt and uncle had made it a rule quite early on into his stay with them to hold back from saying harsh words about Peter’s father, at least in front of Peter himself. For the most part they adhered to it, except for the occasional slip when Ben couldn’t hold back in the first couple of years.

   Then, when Peter was eight, his dad died.  

   Even seven years later, Peter wasn’t exactly sure _how_ he had died. He remembered the way Aunt May and Uncle Ben had looked as they sat down with him in the living room, their faces betraying some unidentifiable emotion that set Peter’s stomach-churning long before they said anything. Died overseas, they told him. No funeral. Just a box of ashes and a broken watch sent over the Atlantic for his only child. Peter never heard a harsh word about his father again.

   The “sightings” of his father got a lot worse after that.

   Well, maybe not so much _worse_ as _happened all the freaking time_. It felt like not a day went by that Peter _didn’t_ see him, out of the corner of his eye, or at the end of the street, or in a dream. The dreams were the worst, really. Thinking you see your dead dad for a split second in the real world was one thing; talking to him, playing with him, just _being_ with him, only to wake up to the dark underside of the bunk above you, your room silent aside from the unending street noise outside the window...it was like having someone stitch a missing part of your heart back together, only for them to rip it out just as you began to feel whole again. He barely even _remembered_ him, but the missing piece was still there.

   Things came to a head one afternoon, about a year after his dad’s death.

   Peter and Ned had just gotten out of school, quickly making their way to Uncle Ben’s waiting car, when Peter saw him; he was standing across the street, sharp blue eyes watching him with the same intensity he remembered. Ned, talking animatedly about the Millenium Falcon Lego set he had tucked safely away in his backpack for them to put together that evening, didn’t notice him stop. Uncle Ben, however, did, and rolled down the passenger window.

   “Pete?” he called out. “Everything alright?”

   “It’s him.”

   Uncle Ben’s countenance darkened, something knowing deep in his eyes, as he glanced in the direction Peter was indicating. He shook his head, looking back at his nephew.

   “Peter...he isn’t there.”

   “Yes, he is!” Peter gestured wildly in his father’s direction. “He’s right there! Next to the mailbox! He’s got a big, red scarf on. See?”

   Uncle Ben said nothing, did not even look back at the street corner. He watched Peter silently, his eyes heavy. When he spoke, it was with a false sense of cheer. “Come on, get in the car, Pete. We’ll grab some sandwiches from Delmar’s on the way. What do you say?”

   “That sounds great, Mr. Parker, sir!” Ned whooped, immediately hopping into the back seat.

   “No,” Peter said petulantly. “Uncle Ben, please.” He swayed where he stood, looking back and forth between his dad and uncle, both of whom seemed to be now wearing similar expressions of concern. “He’s really there. Just look!”

   “Peter, please get in the car.”

   At the corner, his dad began to walk back into the crowd.

   “No!”

   And Peter rushed right into the street, making a beeline for his father’s back. At his shout, his father’s head turned sharply toward him, eyes wide.

  Then Peter heard squealing breaks, his uncle’s voice shouting something with enough panic that the words were distorted beyond recognition.

   For a moment, he saw the car bearing down on him. In the next second, it steered out of the way preternaturally, so quick he couldn’t really make out what happened. One second it was feet from his left shoulder, and the next it was stopped 10 feet away, it’s front bumper kissing the curb on the other side of the road.

   Firm arms wrapped around his shoulders and lifted him up, and his uncle’s face swarmed into view. He’d never seen Ben look so terrified.

   As Ben carried him to the other side, frantically checking him over for injury, Peter looked over his shoulder, back to the street corner. His dad was gone.

   The next morning, Ben and May took Peter to another child psychologist. He was out in Brooklyn, but he was the first they found with availability that day. Hallucinations were one thing, but running out into New York traffic to catch one was another. Medication? Weekly therapy sessions? Something more drastic? They started with sessions twice a week. Twice a week Peter had to talk about his dad, and sometimes his mom. Twice a week, he had to relive his visions, his dreams, all of it. Twice a week, he had to sit in that office and wonder if he was just a little bit crazy. It sucked. But it seemed to work; He hadn’t seen his dad since the sessions started.

   Until today.

   And, like most of his “dad visions” in the past, it came at a _really_ inconvenient moment.

   For the most part, Peter really did try to just be a friendly neighborhood Spiderman. Really! Stop a mugging here, prevent a bank robbery there, help a little old lady old lady cross the street on the way home, celebrate with a churro. Boom, done. It wasn’t like he went out seeking bigger fish to fry; not anymore, at least, not since Toomes. So, it wasn’t like he was trying to find some kind of extra-dimensional creature that looked like a hundred foot long lamprey with spines.

   What was Peter supposed to do? Ignore it? Go up to it like it was one of his normal lost tourists and say, Oh, hey there, freaky slime worm! Sorry, I don’t know where the nearest sewer entrance is. Have you tried asking Lizard?

   Now granted, Peter could have asked Karen to call Mr. Stark up for backup, but what if it turned out to be a lot easier to handle than it looked? What if he called in Iron Man, only to have it all tied up with a big (webby) bow when he got there? Then he’d look like an idiot, and the last thing he wanted to do was waste his mentor’s time.

   Well, not the _last_ thing, he could think of several things he’d like less than that, but...still. It wasn’t high on his list of “Good Things.”

   Whatever the case, it was a bit too late to not get involved, not when he was already ankle deep in some alien slime.

   “Ah, man,” he grumbled, wiping at some that was stuck to his thigh. A thick string of the goop came away with his hand, still attached to his leg. “This is going to be so tough to get out. And I bet this suit is dry clean only.”

   The spiny lamprey...thing let out an unearthly wail, the weird beak in the middle of its mouth clicking angrily. Around them, the street was in absolute chaos as civilians ran, screaming in terror. A few of the braver (or stupid) sect stood some yards away, their phones out and recording the confrontation. Apparently, they trusted Spiderman to protect them.

_Better make sure they’re right._

   “Hey, Eldritch horror!” Peter shouted, waving his hands about to get its attention. The thing didn’t have any discernible eyes, but the way its head tilted his way seemed to indicate he succeeded. Running through the list of web shooters, he quickly selected Taser Web. “Why don’t you try taking a bite out of this?”

   The shot managed to encompass most of the creature’s head. It gave a great cry as electricity pierced its body, thrashing about wildly. Its tail swept aside a car, sending it flying into a building across the street as its head took a chunk out of the brick building behind it.

   It also seemed to have grown.

   _“It would appear that electricity only enhances its power,”_ Karen reported in her professionally clipped tone. _“Would you like me to activate Instant Kill?”_

   “Okay, we seriously need to sit down and talk about your obsession with Instant Kill, Karen,” Peter grunted as he dodged a bite from the creature.

_“It might be necessary to kill the Eldritch horror in order to protect the people. Your webbing does not seem to be strong enough to hold it.”_

    Karen had a point, but Peter was loath to admit it. He really, _really_ didn’t want to kill the creature. He didn’t want to have to kill anything if he could help it. It wasn’t like the thought hadn’t occurred to him; he knew he was fighting off a lot of bad guys, so there was a good chance he’d end up killing someone eventually, intentionally or not. And even if he managed to avoid killing right now, that left the problem of what exactly he was supposed to do with the creature if he managed to subdue it. Give it to a zoo? And he seriously didn’t think Aunt May would let him keep it, even if he wanted to. Still, the idea of killing it left a vile taste in his mouth.

    “We’ll think of something else, Karen. Try another scan, see if you can find a weakne-”

    The rest of Peter’s command was cut off as his mouth dropped open in shock. Something bright and fiery had sparked to life beneath the lamprey. For a moment, the creature seemed confused, making a sound Peter would almost call questioning. Then, the circle of fire opened up into a dark hole that looked like a bottomless pit of fluorescent oil, and with a screech, the creature was sucked into it. A moment later, the flaming hole closed up, and the street was silent.

   Silent for about two seconds, at least. Then the crowd descended into confused shouts as people looked around for the source of the ring.

   “Karen, what the heck was _that_?”

_“Unfortunately, my scanners could not identify anything about that burst. It appears to be completely foreign from anything listed in my database.”_

   “Great, great, so the unidentifiable Eldritch Horror was swallowed by an unidentifiable ring of fire. That’s not ominous at all!”

   Peter scanned the crowd frantically, looking for something, anything suspicious. That flash definitely didn’t look like anything one of the Avengers was capable of, except perhaps that witch lady on Team Cap, but she was MIA. Besides, her magic was always red from what he’d seen, and this had been a warm orange.

   Still, Peter swept over the area, looking for her or anyone else who could have been a source of the circle, but the speed with which the agitated New Yorkers were pushing their way out of the fight zone made catching sight of one suspicious person difficult. A balding dudebro was still slamming down his sub as he shoved passed a woman with a stroller; a group of teenagers gaggled together, too caught up in documenting their harrowing experience on their phones to get out of the way of people trying to get through; an older woman curling her lip at him as she walked with hurried but calculated steps.

   Peter was trying to decide if the expression was a smile or a sneer when the woman passed a man who was also looking towards him. He sucked in a sharp breath, and forgot to exhale.

   His dad.

   It was only a second. The next moment, the woman stalked past where he had been standing, and he was gone. Or at least it felt like it. Peter was pretty sure every part of his body froze and ceased to function for a few seconds there.

_“Peter, is everything alright? Your heart rate has increased rapidly. Would you like me to contact-”_

   “No, no,” Peter interrupted with a rapid shake of his head. “It-it’s alright, Karen. I just...”

   Peter trailed off and forced himself to suck in a deep breath. It wasn’t going to do him any good to panic now.

   Sirens barreling down towards him pulled Peter fully back out of his head. With one last glance at the crowd, he swung away towards home.

  
  


    Almost as soon as he walked in the door, Aunt May gave him _that_ look. She had an unerring ability to know when it was one of those days when he needed her to ask what was wrong, or just let him come out and say it when he was ready. Today it was the latter. She gave him a quick, tight hug, rubbing his back in a comforting motion.

    “I’m thinking we should get some Thai food tonight. I’m in a larb-y mood. How does that sound?”

    Peter managed a weak smile. He could do that, for her. “I’d larb some.”

    May smiled indulgently, and told him with a sniff and a grimace to get a shower first. Apparently, the slime smelled like burnt rubber. Peter supposed he was too inured to the stuff to even notice.

    Dinner was, as expected, great. May did her part to distract Peter from whatever was upsetting him, overusing the word larb in a creative assortment of puns, regaling him with stories from the homeless shelter she volunteered at (some of the patrons had the _best_ stories to tell, and Aunt May was legendary at repeating them). For the most part, she was successful at it, and Peter found himself feeling significantly lighter than he had before. It wasn’t until they arrived back home that the dark pit in his chest began to make itself known again.

    Peter quietly thanked May for dinner, hugging her and kissing her cheek before going to his room. He undressed methodically, kicking off his shoes, tossing his clothes into a corner of his room, and tugging on the first sleep worthy t-shirt he found. With a deep sigh he felt in his bones, Peter collapsed on his bed.

    Peter had told May he was going to bed early, but...sleep just wasn’t going to happen. Not tonight.

    At least it was Friday.

    When Peter had left therapy he’d been warned that the hallucinations of his father might recur, but for some reason, he’d thought it unlikely. Maybe it had just been wishful thinking, or maybe he’d truly thought he’d gotten over his dad’s death, made peace with it, the whole shebang. The only time he’d really considered the possibility of their return was after Uncle Ben’s death. Seemed almost poetic, to start seeing Uncle Ben haunting him everywhere after his mistake. A small part of him actually was kind of...hoping he would. He knew it’d be traumatizing to see him everywhere, to feel like he was looking over his shoulder disapprovingly for not doing more, for not stepping in when he should have.

   But...he’d really wanted to see him again.

   Yet nothing. Not one sighting, in his periphery or otherwise. Maybe that meant he was coping well with Uncle Ben’s death, but that thought made Peter feel kind of...guilty.

   Peter made a frustrated noise and rubbed at his face roughly. Sitting up, he propped his leg up and rested his elbow on his knee, looking out the window towards the street below.

   He’d had a dream, a week or so after Uncle Ben died, that his father visited him through that window.

   The dream was more like a bleary pieced together feeling than a memory. He’d had a lot of those in the week following Uncle Ben’s murder, most of them featuring his uncle dying in his arms after he’d failed to stop his killer from robbing the Minit Mart. This one had started out much the same, with the same feelings of fear, and guilt, and- _God_ , the blood seeping into his clothes and covering his hands- but then it shifted, the way dreams often do. His father had been sitting in the window, watching over him as he tried to sleep. He couldn’t see him, just...felt him there. It was strange, how despite all the years since he’d actually known it, the feeling was as familiar to him as breathing. Like waves rocking him to sleep.

   Footsteps approached his bed, padding lightly across the floor. A soft creak as his father sat on the edge of his bed, the recognizable smell of sandalwood and mint calming Peter instantly.

   “I’m so sorry, Peter,” he’d murmured in the low, gravelly voice Peter remembered from childhood. It had always brought him comfort, the gentle vibrations reminding him of a deep purr. “I’m so, so sorry. I wish I could fix this. You deserve so, so much better.”

   Cold, trembling fingers brushed his forehead in a surprisingly reassuring gesture, his dream whiting out at the touch.

   Peter hadn’t dreamt of Uncle Ben’s death since.

   Maybe that was the difference, between Ben and his dad. His dad was always a comforting presence, reassuring, even when it was tinged with longing for a man he hardly knew. But it was distant, detached. Uncle Ben’s was...real. Not some figment of his traumatized imagination, spurred on by vague memories and a broken watch. It was a complete picture, one that maybe was just...too difficult to think about.

   Peter never wore the watch his father had left him. As clumsy as he was, there was a good chance of losing it or damaging it further. He didn’t want it repaired, either. Keeping it the way his father had it was...some kind of weird way to stay connected to him, really. Like he was looking at the same cracks and chips his dad had looked at. He’d made an absurd number of assumptions about his dad based on that watch.

   In the span of a thought, the pit in his chest felt overwhelmingly oppressive, and Peter sucked in a gasping breath.

   He _really_ didn't want to be alone right now.

   For a second, he seriously considered getting Aunt May. She’d coached him through this more times than he could count. But...he hesitated. She’d been through so much in the last several months, with Uncle Ben’s death, and trying to navigate the world of single-motherhood and all the expenses and stresses that came with that. Adding in a return of the hallucinations of his father, after all the fear and strain they had put on her and Uncle Ben before...it seemed so unfair. He could call Ned, but...as much as he loved his best friend, he wasn’t exactly the best at talking to someone about things like this. Chewing his lip, he gazed at his backpack by his desk.

   “Hey, Karen!” Peter said with cheer he didn’t really feel after he slipped the mask on. Throwing himself back on his bed, he gazed up at the bunk above him. “How’s it going?”

_“I’m well. How are you, Peter?”_

   When he’d first started talking to Karen, he’d felt a bit weird only asking her about things related to the suit. It seemed natural to talk to her like she was a friend, even if she was just an A.I programmed into his suit. Thankfully, Mr. Stark seemed to feel the same way (or just anticipated Peter’s reaction), because she was fully capable of holding mundane conversations.

   Which came in quite convenient at times like this.

   “Honestly, I’m...I’m not doing so good.” Peter paused for a moment, tapping his fingers on his chest. “I want to talk to you about something, but can you swear you won’t report it back to Mr. Stark? I don’t think I want him to know about this.”

_“Of course, Peter. What is it you want to tell me?”_

   Peter wasn’t positive he could trust that, but he’d go with it for now. “I, um...well, what do you think about hallucinations? I mean, like, seeing someone who is dead, but they aren’t really there.”

_“Like a ghost?”_

   “No! No, at least, I don’t think so. I _hope_ not, because that’s a whole other kind of impossible I don’t want to think about right now. No, I mean...actually hallucinating that they are there when they aren’t. Do you...do you think someone can do that without being crazy?”

   Karen was momentarily silent, before piping up with _“From what I have gathered in a search of that symptom, it is a fairly common reaction to grief. I don’t think you are crazy, Peter.”_

   Peter smiled wobbly. “Thanks a lot, Karen. I needed that.”

_“You’re welcome, Peter.”_

   Karen went silent. Peter looked at the pallet boards underneath the upper bunk, tracing the grains in the wood.

   “It’s really rough, seeing someone that isn’t there,” he said softly, pillowing his head with an arm as he kept a steady, tapping beat against his chest with his other hand. “Especially when it is someone you really want to see, you know? Sometimes, it feels _so_ real, like he is standing right there, and if I could just get to him in time, I could grab him and he’d be...he’d be there.”

   Peter broke off with a self-deprecating scoff. “Like today. I _know_ my dad’s dead, has been for years, I even have his ashes on my shelf. But...it’s like I can’t help wondering if he was really there, if maybe, with all the impossible things that are, you know, possible now, maybe this could be, too. Maybe he really was there, watching me fight.” He paused. “I really hate that.”

_“Would it help to review the footage from today?”_

   Peter's body instantly stiffened. “What?”

_“I could queue up the video taken from today’s encounter with the Eldritch horror. If you tell me when you saw him during the battle, I could play it over so you can be sure.”_

   For once, Peter was lost for words. That hadn’t even _occurred_ to him. All these years, after every encounter, he’d wanted so bad to be able to look back and prove what he’d seen. It was the reason for his near-death experience four years ago, when it had become too much, when he’d _had_ to prove to Uncle Ben that his dad was alive. But what were the odds that during those split moment encounters he’d have a camera or something to capture it?

   Without knowing it, Mr. Stark had accidentally given him the best gift possible. Or the worst. He wasn’t sure which yet.

   “O-okay, yeah. You know what, let’s do this. Play it, Karen.”

_“Where should I start it?”_

   “Right after the ring of fire disappeared.”

   Watching replay was still so weird. It was like being in a super advanced virtual reality system with an added dose of deja vu; Peter could swear he could feel that goop all over him again. The Eldritch Horror towered over him again, it’s mouth gaping horribly as it prepared to attack. His stomach dropped a bit at the sight. As preoccupied as he had been trying to figure out a way to save the creature, he hadn’t even seen that attack coming in his direction. That ring of fire hadn’t just been convenient, it could have been life saving. How could he have missed that with his “spidey sense?”

   He watched as the ring closed, and the crowd began to disperse messily. Then he saw the bald dudebro again, and the gaggle of teenagers, and the curled lip woman, and-

   “Freeze it!” he gasped out hoarsely.

   There, standing just behind the woman, was the unmistakable figure of his father.


	2. Set the Controls for the heart of the Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter comes to terms with what he has seen and decides on a game plan.
> 
> Meanwhile, Tony fights with his demons and works to ease his guilt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the great response! Seriously, all of the kudos and comments have made me ridiculously happy. Hope you continue to enjoy the story. 
> 
> A note on formatting: Because I like to use italics, short paragraphs, and, at least in the first chapter, indentation for each new paragraph and piece of dialogue, I've found trying to put all of that in after copy and pasting the fic in to be tedious at best. So I am going to stop the indenting and go back and remove it in chapter 1 at some point. Sorry for the descrepency for now.
> 
> Finally, we get a bit of Tony, and a very healthy dose of Iron Dad and Spider Son...plus a game plan emerges. 
> 
> Once again, thank you to merelypassingtime for betaing and bouncing ideas off with me. She's seriously the best.

_Witness the man who raves at the wall_

  
_Making the shape of his questions to Heaven_

  
_Whether the sun will fall in the evening_

  
_Will he remember the lesson of giving?_

 

~"Set the Controls for the Heart of the Sun," Pink Floyd, _A Saucerful of Secrets_ , June 29, 1968

 

 

For several moments, Peter could do nothing but stare at the screen. There was no cliche reaction, like blood pounding in his ears or feeling faint. It was like his body was stuck several minutes in the past, like his brain and his body were trapped in different moments of response to what he was seeing.

That was….that was definitely his dad. Grey hair and fine wrinkles to show for the decade that had passed and a goatee that hadn’t been there before, but...definitely, definitely him.  

“Karen,” he questioned haltingly. “Do you...do you see a guy here?”

Using the virtual interface that appeared in front of him through the mask, Peter tapped on the image of his dad, zooming in to clarify.

_“Yes, Peter.”_

“Can you...describe him for me?”

Karen was surprisingly silent for a moment. Peter wondered if Mr. Stark had programmed her to experience sympathetic concern that would halt her dialogue.

_“He appears to be tall, with dark, greying hair and facial hair. I believe he is wearing a sweatshirt and jeans, and a rather oversized red scarf.”_

“So you see the same guy I do.”

_“Yes.”_

With a woosh, Peter let out a breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding. Something twinged in his gut as chills began to take hold.

_“Peter, I believe you are experiencing shock.”_

“Yeah, that’s...that’s not a surprise.”

_“Perhaps you should get under the covers. It might help.”_

Listlessly, Peter did as Karen suggested, pulling the covers up to his chin.

How was he supposed to react?

Was what his eyes were telling him even possible?

“Karen, if I gave you an old photo of my dad, could you use it to determine if the man in the image is actually my dad and not just...some guy that really, _really_ looks like him?”

_“Unfortunately, facial recognition is one of the features that Mr. Stark has yet to reactivate since he returned your suit. He’s also added a failsafe to ensure you and Ned can no longer hack my programming.”_

“What!” Peter sat up, youthful indignation momentarily distracting him from the biggest bombshell of his life. “Why?”

_“He expressed concern you’d use it to track down more men like Toomes without coming to him first for help.”_

“That’s-” That’s absolutely something he would do, who was he kidding? “-fair, I suppose...” he relented, falling back down into the sheets. “But how am I supposed to confirm that really is him, then?”

God, what he would give to show this to Aunt May. The recent Spiderman revelation was bad enough, but this would just give her a double heart attack (“Hey, Aunt May, so not only do I risk my life every day as Spiderman, but it turns out my dad-you know, the guy who abandoned me and that you and Uncle Ben hate with a passion?- is actually alive! Maybe. Think this is him?”).

_“You could go to Mr. Stark and request he perform the facial recognition.”_

Wincing, Peter shook his head. “I don’t think that’s a great idea.”

_“Mr. Stark might be able to help you find your father, Peter. He has resources you won’t be able to access anywhere else.”_

Peter chewed at his lip thoughtfully for a moment and scratched at his head through the mask. “Isn’t that a little...personal? Mr. Stark doesn’t seem like he’d really want to get involved in something like this.”

_“I think you might be surprised.”_

That...could be true. Karen had been made by Mr. Stark, so she probably knew him better than Peter did. Still, he didn’t say as much. He stared up at the bunk above him, trying to soothe his nerves by once again tracing the grain in the wood with his eyes. Deep breaths, in and out.

In. Out.

In. Out.

In.

Out.

The guy in the street might not have been his father. There was always a chance this was just a seriously screwed up coincidence, that the man just happened to appear how he thought his dad might look if he had aged nine years...

It was difficult to think of anything when his insides felt like they had all spontaneously turned to ice.

“I’ll talk to Mr. Stark tomorrow, test the water a bit before I ask him,” Peter finally decided. “Thanks for everything, Karen.”

_“Anytime, Peter.”_

With that, Peter silently drew off the mask and stuffed it into his backpack. Collapsing back into the bed, he let out a sigh and closed his eyes. There was no way he was going to get any sleep tonight; his brain was firmly fixated on whatever future would emerge for him in the morning.

Still, wouldn’t hurt to try.

 

“Fri, be a dear and start up the coffee maker,” Tony requested in the lighter tone he reserved for his AI’s and bots.

 _“Another long night, Boss?”_ FRIDAY asked, her voice too carefully neutral. Tony had to commend himself for instilling enough character into FRIDAY’s program that she could develop such a uniquely passive aggressive tone, as she used now. Her soft Irish lilt only served to amplify it. _“Need I remind you that you are coming up on 40 hours without sleep?”_

“Hey, you know as well as I do, baby girl, that I do my best work when I’m half delirious,” he quipped back. “Mark I, a new element, you. Insomnia isn’t a symptom, it’s a _strategy_.”

To be fair, it wasn’t like he _had_ to keep working. There was no time limit, no sense of immediacy on the project, no lives hanging in the balance. See, the problem was he couldn’t really...sleep, these days. Hadn’t done in several years. Sure, he’d tried pills, meditation, yoga-hell, even flew out an Austrian hypnotist once. Nada. So he sort of...just gave up on _trying_ to sleep. His body would tell him when it was ready to pass out. Usually by _actually_ passing out.

Until then, Tony would tinker in the workshop.

If he couldn’t be healthy, then he’d damn well be productive.

Though clearly still in disagreement, FRIDAY powered up the coffee maker with a resigned, _“Whatever you say, Boss_.”

After retrieving a mug of the dark brew (like he was going to sully Black Ivory Coffee with cream and sugar; those beans weren’t processed through the digestive tract of elephants to be insulted like _that_ ), Tony leaned back against a large tool chest and eyed the projection on the table in front it critically. Rhodey’s leg braces worked fine and well, but that didn’t mean there couldn’t be improvements. He’d noticed a slight hitch in the normally even, calculated gate of the colonel earlier that day-or, the other day, a _recent_ day, they all kind of blurred- and Tony was determined to smooth out the problem.

Not that there would be a problem if…if he hadn’t…

Tony jiggled his shoulders and let out a harsh breath through his nose. Setting aside the mug, he clapped his hands together and approached his workbench with intent. “Alright, round one!”

 

   

The thing with insomniac work is that it isn’t really the insomnia that drives you to do shit; it’s the reasons behind the insomnia.

In Tony’s case, _guilt_.

Guilt over his once well-earned title “Merchant of Death”; guilt over driving people like Killian and even Hammer to violent actions affecting so, so many innocent lives; guilt over Ultron and Sokovia; guilt over Pepper, and how could he be harder to live with than _Howard_?

Guilt over the Avengers, and Civil War, and “Tony, I’m flying dead stick-”

Out of the corner of his eye, Tony thought he could make out the figure of his father watching him, mocking him. He took a sip of his coffee, steadfastly ignoring it. He knew he was alone in the shop, logically, he _knew_ that, and that his father was long, long dead, killed by Rogers’ brainwashed besty, but even so an uncomfortable chill made its way down Tony’s spine.

At least he could use it for motivation. It had worked well in the past.

Setting aside the coffee, he pushed the leg braces away and pulled up a new set of schematics.

_“You have been awake for 46 hours now.”_

“Great, what’s the world record?” Tony retorted, already deep into analyzing the base structure of the new suit. The key was in allowing maximum flexibility for Underroo’s gymnastics while giving him greater support should he try another “pulling two halves of a ferry together” type stunt. Enhanced or not, that kind of strain couldn’t be good for him.

Tony may have fucked up every other part of his life, but he’d be damned if he let this kid meet the same fate.

 

_“Wake up, Boss.”_

Tony jerked awake with a start, whipping around and blinking rapidly as he tried to gain his bearings.

He was in his shop, sitting at his workbench, where he’d stayed up working on Rhodey’s leg braces and Peter’s upgrade. Right.

When had he even fallen asleep?

“FRIDAY, what time is it?”

_“It is 9:47 in the morning. You slept for nearly two hours. Congratulations.”_

“God, why do I always program my AI’s to sass me?” He grumbled without heat, rubbing his eyes blearily as he stood slowly and winced at the crick in his neck.

He was getting way too old for falling asleep at his desk.

“Why’d you wake me in the first place? Call from Fury? Another life-threatening emergency?”

_“Peter Parker is here to see you. He’s been in the lobby for the last 20 minutes.”_

Tony squinted, looking towards the door as if he could peer through it and see the kid. “Did I forget about an appointment with him?”

_“No, Boss. Mr. Parker showed up unannounced.”_

A long way to come without warning. Tony sniffed a bit, tapping his fingers against his thigh as he pondered allowing him in.

“Hold the kid steady for me, I should...clean up, or...something.”

 _“You might want to hurry up with that,”_ FRIDAY said, her tone uncharacteristically tentative. _“I think the matter might be urgent.”_

 _That_ stopped Tony in his tracks. “Show me video of the lobby.”

The kid was sitting in one of the overstuffed chairs just outside. Elbows on his knees, he was pressing his fingertips to his temples, shielding his face mostly from view. Tony didn’t need to see Peter’s expression to confirm FRIDAY’s assessment, though; in the few short months he had known the kid, he didn’t think he’d ever seen him so completely still.

Tony felt a wave of concern laced with fear. The accompanying adrenalin cleared the last bits of haze from his brief nap away and had him on his feet and headed toward the bathroom attached to his workshop. As he went, he commanded, “Give me five minutes, then let the kid in.”  

 

_“Mr. Stark will see you now, Peter.”_

Peter jumped at hearing FRIDAY’s Irish lilt filling the room, his heart beating way harder than was reasonable.

_Be calm, be calm, deep breaths…_

Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, Peter nodded his head and stood. “Thanks, FRIDAY.”

Peter had only been to the compound once before, and then he had only seen the hallway leading to the conference room. The elevator leading to Mr. Stark’s shop was new to him, and when the doors opened into the expansive room, Peter had to blink and gather his bearings.

‘Tony’s Playplace,’ as Peter had overheard Mr. Rhodes and Happy refer to it once, was a lot less futuristic garage and more hi-tech surgery. Half the equipment appeared to be custom made for Mr. Stark’s particular use, as Peter didn’t recognize their intended function. Half a dozen work tables were spaced throughout the room, as if put there for use by more engineers than just Mr. Stark at one time. Indeed, each had its own set of tool cabinets beside it, and on three of the tables there appeared to be projects in progress. Peter could make out what looked like a prototype for Mr. Rhodes’ leg braces on one table, and something that might belong to an Iron Man suit on another, and on the third…

Peter dropped his backpack and raced for the table, his excitement momentarily letting his purpose for this trip slip his mind. On the last table, a hologram of the development plans for a new Spiderman suit lit up the area in a soft blue glow. It looked much the same, but the schematics showed plans for reducing the stress on his body through use of nano-tech. He reached out towards the hologram almost reverently, intending to read up further, when a voice interrupted him.

“Morning, kid.”

Peter jumped back guiltily and spun around. Mr. Stark had just stepped through a door near the back of the lab, steam swirling out behind him. The older man padded towards him as he roughly took a towel to his damp hair before tossing it to the side carelessly. This was without a doubt the most casual Peter had seen his mentor dressed, with bare feet, dark sweat pants, and a black ACDC t-shirt. Somehow, this seemed a lot more natural for him than the Armani suits.

“G-good morning, Mr. Stark,” Peter said, then winced at the way his voice caught. To cover it he indicated the Spiderman template. “Sorry, I just came in and I saw this up, and I-”

“Nah, you’re good, Underoos,” Mr. Stark cut him off. He patted Peter on the shoulder, then reached out and turned off the hologram. Peter watched it fade with no little longing. “Suit’s for you, after all.” Leaning back against the table, Mr. Stark crossed his arms and looked Peter over critically. “So how was the calculus test?”

The question was so far removed from where Peter’s mind was that it took him a moment to process. When it did, though, his face lit up with a touch of pride. “Oh! Oh, yeah, it went really well! Got a 97%.”

“Hey, that’s what we like to hear!” Mr. Stark leaned forward and lightly smacked Peter’s shoulder with the back of his hand. “Not to blow my own horn, but I think that Stark Internship is really paying off.”

The easy smile and playful wink his mentor gave him put Peter somewhat at ease. The Stark Internship had become something of an inside joke between the two of them; whenever Peter did particularly well in school, Tony would credit it on his tutelage (to be fair, it was partly due to him, as Tony had taken to helping Peter with his math and mechanics homework). If Peter did poorly, they’d argue over whether it was due to the internship taking too much of Peter’s time away from homework or Peter’s own “extracurricular activities.”

“And how about English Lit?”

This time, Peter winced. “I, uh, don’t think it’s worth mentioning that one...”

Mr. Stark snorted, but gave Peter a look. “Too much time spent on extracurricular activities.”

“No, no, I just...don’t really get Shakespeare.”

“Ah, I should get you in touch with Thor. Spend a few hours with him and he’ll have you wearing drapes and speaking Old English in no time,” Mr. Stark quipped as he turned to approach the coffee stand near his workbench.

“It’s actually Early Modern Engl-wait, you can put me in touch with Thor?”

Mr. Stark chuckled as he dumped old coffee grounds into the trash and started to prepare a new pot. “No, kid. Point Break’s been MIA for a year or so now. Plus, I don’t even know how to get in touch with an extraterrestrial God-like being. Guy doesn’t have a cell as far as I know, and he never returns my emails. You want anything to drink?”

The teenager shrugged a bit, crossing his arms. “I could have some coffee, I guess.”

“Nope, not at your age you’re not. How about some Korean Banana Milk?”

“Seriously, you have Korean Banana Milk? That’s so cool! It’s one of my favorites!”

“What a coinkydink.” Mr. Stark reached into the mini-fridge below and pulled one out, tossing it to Peter behind him. As Peter went to take an eager sip, Tony continued.“So anything exciting happen out in the field for our Friendly Neighborhood Spiderman?”

Nerves shot through Peter like lightning, and he choked on the suddenly flavorless drink. “Um...define...define exciting?”

“Oh, that reaction isn’t suspicious at all. What kind of trouble did you run into?”

 _Childhood trauma_ , Peter thought. “Just, you know, a few pickpockets, a mugging, some...unidentifiable attacker. I handled it- _him_ \- though.”

“What do you mean by “unidentifiable attacker,” exactly?” Mr. Stark said slowly, turning to look at him.

“Uh...”

_“If I may, Boss, I believe Mr. Parker is thinking of the unidentified alien creature that appeared on Bleeker Street yesterday afternoon.”_

“The _what?_ ” Mr. Stark spun around, a look of horror on his face. “FRIDAY, pull up reports on the incident.”

“Oh, no. I mean, it was nothing. Just a little, um tentacled creature. No one was hurt or anything. You don’t need to see the reports…” Peter started, then paused as it occurred to him that somewhere in those reports might be another image of the man who made be he father and that he might not get a better chance to ask Mr. Stark what he so desperately wanted to know.

Just the thought of the question turned Peter’s stomach to ice once again.

Distantly, Peter listened to Mr. Stark argue with FRIDAY over withholding reports on such an attack on New York, too distracted trying to not throw up the Egg McMuffin he’d snagged on his way for breakfast. God, this feeling _sucked_ . His stomach trembled at the thought of telling Mr. Stark about his dad, afraid of being seen by his mentor as crazy or delusional, or maybe exceeding the parameters of their relationship. At the same time, he was dying to talk about it, get it off his chest, figure out what the _hell_ was going on. What had been going on for the last nine years. A familiar tightness started to take over his chest, and Peter forced himself to let out a breath.

“Mr. Stark,” he started slowly. “Actually, if you wanted to bring up the reports, I had a part of the fight I wanted to talk to you about. Well, I mean, not the fight itself but just after. But, um… it’s kind of personal.”

The mostly one-sided argument with his AI ceased almost immediately as Tony turned to look at Peter. The only indication that he recognized the seriousness of the moment was a split-second tightening of the muscles in his shoulders at the initial statement. He relaxed again almost instantly and replied, “Sure thing, kid. What do you want me to pull up?”

Sucking in another breath, Peter let it out slowly before pressing forward. “I, um. The thing is, after the fight, I...think I saw my dad.”

Something shadowy appeared in Tony’s eyes as he looked Peter up and down. “You mean your birth father?”

Peter swallowed and nodded.

“He...passed away, several years ago, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And what do you mean, you think you saw him, like as a...hallucination?”

“I really don’t know, Mr. Stark,” Peter said, anxiety clear in his voice.

Tony must have heard it because he took a breath and it was with a much more even tone that he asked his next question. “How long?”

“What?”

“How long has this been happening? Was it just the one time?”

“No,” Peter said hesitantly. “It’s been happening ever since he left me with May and Ben, when I was about six.”

Surprisingly, the air around Mr. Stark relaxed a bit more at the statement. Grabbing a nearby stool, Mr. Stark rolled it Peter’s way and indicated he should sit down. Leaning back against the coffee bar, he stuck his hands in his pockets. “And have you spoken to anyone about this before?”

Biting his lip, Peter shook his head at first as he sat down, then paused, and nodded quickly. “No, I mean, I’ve gone to therapists in the past about it. I just...haven’t told anyone else about seeing him again, except Karen.”

Mr. Stark’s lip twitched at the mention of Karen, but otherwise his expression remained somber. “So why come to me about this? Why not Aunt Hottie? And don’t get me wrong,” he added as Peter opened his mouth to respond. “I’m...glad, that you did. I just don’t know why this time is any different.”

“Because...I’m not so sure that I’ve been hallucinating him.”

A pause. “How do you mean?” Mr. Stark asked carefully.

“Well...Karen’s camera was able to pick him up, Mr. Stark.”

After a longer pause Tony asked, “So Karen saw him too?”

“Yeah, she did. He was even in the video playback.”

“You mean the baby monitor protocol?” Tony asked with the ghost of a smile.

Peter rolled his eyes at the name but nodded in agreement.  

“And what would you like me to do?”

“Can you do some kind of facial recognition? Maybe see if you can track him down, figure out where he’s been, where he lives-”

“Whoa, whoa, slow down, kid,” Mr. Stark said, raising a hand up placatingly. “Listen, I get that you're excited at the idea that your old man might still be alive, but-” He cut himself off, and chewed at his lip as he looked at Peter with uncertainty.

Peter plowed ahead before his mentor could finish his thought. “Please, Mr Stark. I have to know. This is...this is my _dad_ we’re talking about.”

Mr. Stark hung his head with a deep sigh. Looking up at Peter through his eyelashes, he spoke gravely. “You do understand that you might not like the answer you get, right? It might not be him, and you’ll have to accept that. If it is him, then...there’s a serious question about why he hasn’t been around, why he let you think he’s dead, all of it. And I can do a detailed facial recognition, look for scars and moles and specifics like that, but even if it says it’s him, and I track him down, it might just be a guy that looks a hell of a lot like him. Chances are it was just a huge coincidence.”

Reaching out, Mr. Stark gripped Peter’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I don’t want to bring you down, okay, kid? I’ll do it, I just want you to be aware of what you might be setting yourself up for. No false hope. I don’t deal in that, especially not with you.”

Peter’s nerves settled into something less all encompassing and more simmering. Despite the fatalistic feeling his mentor’s words might induce in some, his heavy dose of realism was exactly what Peter needed to hear. Almost as soon as Mr. Stark finished talking, he found himself nodding his head.

“Okay. Let’s do this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I very nearly ended this on a cliffhanger again, but that would have just been heavy-handed and forced. You'll get that exciting tidbit next chapter. ;)
> 
> The title for the next chapter is "Comfortably Numb: Part 1."


	3. Comfortably Numb (Part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, I have to start with a profound apology. I had not intended to take so long in updating, but the last month turned out to be...one of the most trying I've had, really. Long story short, the deterioration and deaths of two beloved pets, literally hours apart, and a visit to the ER for something that I am in the process of an expected months-long recovery from, made what I thought would be a two-week delay due to a Big Bang I was a part of into much more. 
> 
> On the bright side, this chapter turned into an incredibly long one, so I have decided to split it into two parts. That means you can be assured of another update next week. These two are doozies, too, so I think you all might really enjoy them. I also ended up changing the name of both parts, as much of what I thought I would be writing about is going to come up in the chapter after this two-parter.
> 
> Thanks again to my friend, merelypassingtime, for her betaing skills and endless encouragement. 
> 
> Please enjoy!

 

 

 

_Hello._

  
_Is there anybody in there?_

  
_Just nod if you can hear me._

  
_Is there anyone home?_

 

~"Comfortably Numb", from _The Wall,_ November 30 _,_ 1979

 

 

 

92% match.

 

92%.

 

Face shape, hairline, lips, eyes, even the wrinkles in his forehead matched up. The playback footage was not quite able to pull up his eye color to match it to the one in Peter’s family photo, but...

 

“That-that’s insanely high for a coincidence, right Mr. Stark?”

 

The engineer said nothing for some time as he continued to look over Friday’s analysis with a fine tooth comb. After some time, though, he nodded, almost reluctantly.

 

“Yeah, kid. That’s pretty damn high.”

 

Already tensed and on edge, that confirmation from his mentor left Peter’s legs feeling like jelly.

Almost without looking, Tony put a hand on Peter’s shoulder and guided him to take a seat at the desk.

 

“Sit down, kid. Don’t need you falling over and cracking your head open. Your aunt would kick my ass.”

 

“How close to fingerprint identification accuracy is that?”

 

“Something between the 60s and 70s would within the margin of error, but something in the 90s with a decade between the images is pretty difficult to explain away.”

 

“So...so it’s him, then?” Peter questioned in a small voice.

 

Mr. Stark’s mouth was set in a tight line, and when he spoke, his voice was gruff. “I can’t make any promises at this point, but...yeah, it is probably his face.”

 

“What do you mean, it’s probably his face? Is it someone else’s body or something? Are there face stealing aliens out there like in that one movie? Are you keeping it from the public to prevent mass hysteria?” Peter demanded, his voice rising with each question.

 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Settle down, kid.” Tony said. In his own exhaustion he had misjudged Peter’s mental state badly, now he backtracked. “There aren’t any face stealing aliens that I know of. I was just saying we don’t know enough right now. I mean a face match isn’t foolproof. “Look,” Mr. Stark continued, taking a seat himself and kicking his feet up on the desk. “It’s complicated by this freaky world you and I live in. Nothing is simple for us anymore. Sure, that guy looks a hell of a lot like your dad, he probably has the same face, but that doesn’t mean he _is_ your dad. As sick and twisted as it is, maybe some dipshit maybe trying to get to you by posing as your dad.”

 

“But,” Peter interrupted, “how would they know to pretend to be my father?”

 

“That’s the downside to being a hero, it means you end up with enemies like that Toomes guys. People who know who you are and aren’t afraid to use your family to hurt or control you.”

 

“If it is someone like that, someone pretending to be my dad or something, how will we know?”

 

The engineer crossed his arms and rested his chin on his chest. “Give me a few days. I’ll have Friday do some digging, see if she can track down any more appearances by your dad. See how far back his appearances go. If I can find some from before your little encounter with the radioactive spider-”

 

“-then it can’t be a ploy to get to me.” Peter finished for him breathlessly.

 

Mr. Stark smiled softly, tapping his nose with the finger of one hand and point at him with the other. “You’ve got it.” Looking Peter in the eye, he continued. “I promise, we’re going to get to the bottom of this together, but for now why don’t we let Friday do her thing? You can take a load off, go home, build some lego structures with Ned, do whatever it is teenagers are doing these days for fun. Just let me and Friday carry this weight for a bit, alright?”

 

“No, wait, but I want to help, Mr. Stark! I can’t just wait-”

 

“What are you going to do?” Mr. Stark’s tone was blunt, but not unkind. “Hell, what can either of us do that Friday can’t at this point? In an hour Fri can process more information than you or I could in a month.”

 

Peter hesitated, but sullenly nodded his acceptance.

 

“And no lone-wolfing it behind my back, either,” Tony added, with a knowing look.

 

Peter made a sound of complaint, but one look from Mr. Stark and he backed off. They both knew Tony was right.

 

“I just...shouldn’t I be involved in finding him?”

 

“You will be,” Mr. Stark responded, standing from his seat and stretching. Several parts of him popped and creaked as he did. He shot Peter a look, daring him to comment. “But right now, we have to leave it up to Friday. And you need some rest. You look awful.”

 

The ghost of a smile graced Peter’s lips. “Okay. I’ll do my best.”

 

“That’s all I ask.” Mr. Stark said, handing him back the photograph.

 

Almost reverently, Peter takes it back, pausing for a moment to look at the image. There’s a haughtiness in the smirk his father gives the camera, in stark contrast to his mother’s soft smile and Peter’s own boyish grin. Despite knowing better, he’s always found his father looked stiff and unapproachable, and so distant from the woman at his side and the child they share. It’s an illusion compounded by the lack of resemblance to his father, who is all angles and harsh lines; Peter has always taken more after his mother’s side, with rounded faces and full cheeks, and the same floppy brown hair. Hardly anyone that looks at it thinks they look like a family, but Peter’s always thought they did, anyway. They _were_ , it just wasn’t always easy to see from the outside.

 

Tucking away the photograph, Peter offered Mr. Stark a quick salute before heading towards the elevator. As Peter stepped in, Mr. Stark spoke up.

 

“Hey, one last question, kid. What’s your dad’s name? I want to see if I can cross reference it with pictures if Friday finds any.”

 

Shifting his backpack a bit higher on his shoulder in a nervous gesture, Peter replied, “His name was...is, I guess, Stephen Strange. Doctor Stephen Strange, if that helps. He’s a neurosurgeon.”

 

The last thing Peter saw as the elevator doors closed was a curious quirk of Mr. Stark’s eyebrow.

 

***

 

Sitting around and doing nothing for three days did not sit well with Peter, who was much more inclined to take charge than let events unfold around him. However, in this case, Mr. Stark was probably right. It _had_ been kind of...a dramatic couple of days, to put it lightly. ‘To put it lightly’ even felt like an insufficient qualifier. And really, like Mr. Stark had said, what could he do that Friday couldn’t? He knew he was much better off spending his time on homework than sitting around a lab, twiddling his thumbs while the super A.I worked her magic under Mr. Stark’s guiding hand.

 

That didn’t mean it didn’t royally suck, though.

 

At first, Peter attempted to procrastinate on his homework. Cleaning the kitchen, vacuuming and mopping the floors, checking in on the building owner to see if she wanted any assistance. She didn’t, but she did offer him cookies and tea, and he spent a surprisingly pleasant hour listening to her gossip about two of her tenants. Afterward, he returned to the apartment and spent another couple of hours wasting time online. Looking at Tumblr (more Avengers gossip, rumors about a Buffy the Vampire Slayer reboot, a post about Tony Stark’s role in the Avengers Civil War that Peter had to take a few minutes to explain all the reasons why the poster was wrong). Checking his email (Amazon deals, New to Redbox, Science Mag Daily, an offer for an internship with New York Hall of Science, an offer for an internship with Timely Pharmaceuticals, most of which he ignored aside from the NYHoS which could prove interesting). Falling into a loop of YouTube videos (Maru in a Box, Grumpy Cat, Best Cat Vines, Best Dog Vines, a dog dancing with his owner to an Irish jig). Eventually, though, he was forced to accept the inevitable and pull up his homework list.

 

Peter spent the rest of Saturday studying for his Spanish exam. Or, rather, _attempting_ to study for his Spanish exam. As hard as he tried, it was impossible to focus completely on anything. Compartmentalizing was the key, as Mr. Stark had told him once during one of their engineering tutoring sessions. Sometimes, when you had a ton of big things coming at you, you had to compartmentalize in order to deal with them without losing your mind. Take on one big thing at a time, and put the rest on the back burner until you could handle them. He didn’t think Mr. Stark was talking about big things like finding out your supposedly dead father was actually alive- possibly -and had faked his death so he could abandon you when his mentor taught him that technique, though.

 

That was the thing, wasn’t it? If his dad wasn’t dead, then why wasn’t he here? If it wasn’t death, then it was abandonment, and Peter couldn’t-

 

Letting out a breath sharply through his nose, Peter shook himself a bit, cutting off that train of thought.

 

“Okay, okay, enough of that...enough, just...let’s focus on this… ¿Dónde está la biblioteca?”

 

***

 

The funny thing about a breakdown, Peter realized, was that general consensus said they hit you all of a sudden, like being in a car crash. But Peter had some familiarity with breakdowns, and in his experience, he’d found that they more resembled _witnessing_ a car crash from the outside. You could see it coming, vaguely, but time seemed to slow just enough to make you think that maybe it would be all right, up until the moment of impact. Peter’s breakdown after Ben’s murder was like that. Slow to build, taking over a week to hit. When it did, he didn’t even notice he _was_ breaking down, not until May came into his room and sat on his bed, where he’d been curled up for some time. He wasn’t even sure how long it had been, not until she told him it was nearly dinner and he hadn’t climbed out except to use the bathroom. He’d just felt...cold, empty.

 

Although that one had been much more recent, the total numbness he’d experienced made it almost immeasurable. More tangible by far was Peter’s breakdown after the car crash, which came after a few days of numbness, stuck in a hospital room as he watched his father struggle to accept his catastrophic injuries. It was more brief images than anything really concrete, as to be expected for something that occurred when he was only six, but what he recalled was picture perfect; the crack as he twisted his Captain America action figure so hard as something hot burbled up into his chest that the arm came off. The faded blue of the coarse hospital blanket as he stared down at the broken toy in his lap. The sterile scent of cleanser that made his nose burn. Intense cold in his limbs, even his right leg in its cast, despite the intense _heat_ in his chest and eyes. Then warmth, as long arms carefully encased him, avoiding catching him on the wires and brackets that held the hands together. His father’s warm, gravelly voice as he murmured something indecipherable in his ear but comforting all the same. The only discernible words, or at least the only he could recall, were a softly spoken “I’m here, pal.”

 

His father had been distant in the days after the crash, almost catatonic. He’d tried, though, after that day in the hospital. There hadn’t been words that could bring comfort, really, nothing that wasn’t cliched, nothing that could ease the loss of a wife and mother. But he’d tried. He’d _tried_. That was the thought Peter clung to every time he caught his uncle bad mouthing his father, or during those dark moments after  Ben and May had been given full custody, leaving him to wonder what kind of father abandoned his child. Stephen had tried, had sat up with him many, many nights, comforting Peter when he’d needed it even as he turned inward on himself, becoming more and more obsessed with fixing his hands.  

 

Stephen _tried_. And Peter still clung to that.

 

This breakdown was somewhere between his two previous ones. Swift like his first, but stealthy like it had been with Ben’s death. And similar to the latter, it took Aunt May’s gentle presence for him to see it.

 

The weekend had gone by as empty motions, vaguely existing in his space without really observing it. Peter made an attempt at doing his homework, though what he did and which subjects he’d studied he couldn’t say. He cleaned up a bit, and fed his cat, Boots, and his leopard gecko, Lizzie; Literal creature comforts that had been by his side since he’d moved in. As far as Peter was concerned, he was doing pretty damn well. He was coping. He was existing.

 

Then Monday came and he just...didn’t get out of bed.

 

Well, he _did_ , but barely, crawling out from the covers after seven, he did his bathroom business, fed Boots and Lizzie, and then went back to his room. He stopped and stared at the backpack in the corner blankly. Emptily. And then he fell back in bed.

 

A soft hand shaking his shoulder brought Peter to consciousness sometime later, though consciousness was something of a relative term. Blinking his bleary eyes to remove the crustiness, he glanced up at Aunt May’s worried countenance.

 

“Hey, Peter.”

 

Peter sat up, dislodging Boots from his place halfway on his shoulder. The tuxedo cat gave an indignant mewl before wandering towards the foot of the bed.

 

“Hey, May. What are you doing home?”

 

“The school called. They told me you didn’t show up?”

 

Peter nodded slowly, his stomach curdling at the expression that action produced on May’s face.

 

“What’s up with you, Peter? You’ve been upset for days now, and I’ve been trying to give you space, because I know I can be a helicopter parent sometimes when I’m worried, but-” Her lips twitched down, and she sucked in a sharp breath through her nose. “I can tell this is more than typical teenage angst. So spill.”

 

Nibbling at his lip, Peter hesitated. “I...I really didn’t want to make you worry.”

 

“I’m your aunt, that’s my prerogative.”

 

Peter fumbled with the sheets in his hands. He couldn’t bear to look Aunt May in the eye, knowing what her reaction was bound to be.

 

“I...saw my dad again.”

 

Though he couldn’t see her face, her reaction was palpable: A soft intake of breath, and her body stiffened next to his.

 

“When?”

 

“On Friday, when I was...on my way back from school.”

 

“You mean when you went for a Spiderman detour.”

 

Peter winced. “Yeah.”

 

Aunt May tapped an erratic beat on her knee. Reaching out with her other hand, she brushed it through Peter’s hair. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

 

“It..really wasn’t anything special,” _God,_ he hated to lie to her, but...he just couldn’t, not yet. He didn’t even know anything yet, still waiting anxiously for Tony’s response. What possible good would it do to tell her that his father might have faked his death? “It was just a...pretty average bad guy, you know?” Aside from the whole Eldritch Horror element of course, but he didn’t say that. “But afterward, I saw dad...just walking by in the crowd.”

 

“Like your old...visions?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, pretty much...”

 

Chewing on her lip, Aunt May glanced away, staring sightlessly out the window. Something deep in Peter’s stomach ached at the expression on her face. This kind of distant look in her eyes was exactly why he had tried to spare her from his escapades as Spiderman, why he had been so determined to keep her from finding out about his dad until he was certain about what was going on. She tried so hard to hide it, but she had lost just as much as Peter, if not more, and he knew how hard it was for her to let him do the risky stuff he did. She never tried to stop him or change him, though. She accepted him and worked so hard to support him, even in times like this when it was hard.

 

The least he could do was spare her a little heartache, at least until he had no choice.

 

“Honestly, Aunt May, there..really isn’t anything to say about it. I’m fine, really. I just...”

 

“It’s hard, I know.” She brushed back his hair again. “But please, promise you’ll tell me if you have any more visions of him, okay?”

 

If Peter was right and his father _was_ alive, then that at least he could guarantee. “I will. I promise.”

***

 

Aunt May left the room not long after, and Peter returned to his quiet contemplation. He’d debated asking her questions about his dad, but ultimately left it alone, knowing what he was hoping to hear, what he wanted to find, but positive opinions of his father did not seem likely to come from Aunt May’s mouth. She’d try, of course, but he was pretty sure he’d heard all the good she had to say about him before.

 

Once, Peter and Ned had tried to determine their Hogwarts houses, along with everyone else they knew. Aunt May had joined them in their fervent discussion, passionately declaring her place as a Hufflepuff, and high fived Ned when he told her he was a Hufflepuff, too. Ben was definitely a Gryffindor, with his bravery and take charge attitude. Ned’s parents both belonged in Ravenclaw, as did Peter’s mom. May, who had befriended her during college when she had first met Ben, described her as wicked smart and the type to stay in the library for hours studying ahead of curriculum just out of sheer curiosity.

 

“That’s how she met your father,” She told them, smiling softly at Peter as she always did when she brought up his dad. It was somewhere between distressed and regretful. “He came up to her while she was studying anatomy and offered to help.”

 

“Aw, that’s sweet!” Ned grinned. “They fell in love while studying together?”

 

“No,” May smirked. “She told him she didn’t need his ego blocking her view of the illustrations. I’m pretty sure he was smitten after that.”

 

Peter, always eager to hear more about both his parents, cackled at May’s tale. “She really _said_ that to him?”

 

“Cross my heart and hope to die,” May said, doing just that with a flourish. “I was there when it happened.”

 

“What did he do?”

 

“He laughed, suggested she could maybe help him instead. She turned him down flat.

They ended up in a class together the next semester, though, and she warmed up to him. By the end of the year, they were inseparable.”

 

Later, after Ned had left and Peter was climbing into bed, he’d asked May if his dad was a Ravenclaw, too.

 

“He was really smart,” she’d said. “Probably the smartest person I’ve ever met. Don’t tell Ben that! But...he was also really ambitious. Really, _really_ ambitious. I think he’d be more of a Slytherin.”

 

“Do you think I might be a Slytherin, too?”

 

May had laughed at that, and poked his stomach until he laughed. “No, I think you’re my little Hufflepuff.”

 

The pronouncement had upset Peter enough to bring tears to his eyes, which May, in her eternally understand way, had quickly shushed with gentle reassurances.

 

It wasn’t that Peter thought May was calling his dad evil (he knew better than _that_ , knew that Slytherins could be good). No, he just...really, _really_ wanted to be just like his dad. He knew he looked much more like his mom than his dad, looked at her soft features in the mirror every morning before school. He shared her shellfish allergy, and Aunt May’s sense of humor, and Uncle Ben’s determination to do the right thing at all costs. But, what really did he have from his dad?

 

A few wispy memories and a broken watch.

 

That had been his goal, for as long as Peter could remember. To have more from his father, to understand who the man was, share something with him. Now, though….

 

Peter found himself slipping on his mask and asking Karen to play the frozen image of his father on Bleecker Street, wondering as he did if he’d wasted his ambitions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So for anyone wondering at the reveal of Peter's father: I never intended for his identity to be a central mystery to this story. More of a red herring mystery, if you will. There is a lot more going on here behind the scenes to focus on...
> 
> I also indulged myself a bit. Boots and Lizzie, the pets I gave to Peter, are the ones I lost this month. 
> 
> Next chapter is "Comfortably Numb (Part 2)"


	4. Comfortably Numb (Part 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, betaed by the incomparable @merelypassingtime.

 

_Come on, now._

  
_I hear you're feeling down._

  
_Well, I can ease your pain,_

  
_Get you on your feet again._

 

~ "Comfortably Numb," Pink Floyd,  _The Wall_ , November 30, 1979

 

 

 Around dinner time that night, someone knocked at the apartment door.

 

Peter was still holed up in his room, May thankfully agreeing to give him more space as long as he promised not to play Spiderman that night. He hardly paid the visitor mind, until May’s characteristic knock on his door.

 

“Peter? Mr. Stark’s here for you.”

 

With his advanced physiology, Peter was pretty sure he made some kind of record from his bed to open the door, ignoring entirely the fact that he was still dressed in his pajamas. Mr. Stark jerked back slightly at the abruptness of the movement, but, as always, played it cool and used the movement to appear as if he was looking Peter up and down. “Mr. Parker, dare I say you played hooky today?”

 

Before Peter could answer, Mr. Stark turned to Aunt May with his version of an apologetic smile, though it seemed far less sympathetic and more for show. “Mind if I talk to the kid in private? Got something important to discuss.”

 

“You mean like the last time you had to ‘talk privately’ and Peter ended up in Germany to fight a bunch of criminals under the guise of an internship?” She drawled, raising an eyebrow archly and crossing her arms.

 

“Yeah...that was...extenuating circumstances and kind of urgent. But this is just paperwork. Superhero business. Nothing that will require him to leave the tri-state area.”

 

“It’s fine, Aunt May, nothing to worry about!” Peter tugged at Mr. Stark’s sleeve, pulling him into the room. “Like he said, just some paperwork. But, you know, private Avengers business-”

 

“Not quite an Avenger yet, kid. Turned me down, remember?”

 

“-private...friendly neighborhood superhero business. We’ll be done in a jiffy!”

 

Before the door could close, May put her hand on it. Looking Peter dead in the eye, she remarked, “Peter...swear to me this isn’t anything dangerous. Because you do _not_ need any more stress right now.”

 

That pointed look, earnest yet brooking no argument, nearly caused Peter to give in and spill everything. But, he reminded himself, he didn’t _know_ everything yet, so…

 

He’d spare her, just a little longer.

 

“I promise.”

 

The door closed on Aunt May’s dubious and slightly concerned face. Peter leaned against the back of the door, breathing a sigh of temporary relief.

 

“Well, can’t say it looks like you’ve taken my advice.”

 

Mr. Stark looked him over with an apparent detached critical assessment that did not quite belie his concern.

 

“I’ve been doing nothing but homework, Mr. Stark. I haven’t even been Spidermaning this weekend.”

 

“And yet, you look like the poster image of teenage depression. Probably why Aunt Hottie had a Mayo Clinic page about it open on her laptop when I came in.”

 

Peter started to comment on ‘Aunt Hottie’ but redirected when the rest of Mr. Stark’s sentence registered. “She did?”

 

“Yeah. Might help if you got dressed. Seems to fool them. Though I have to say, I am flattered by your show of support. Terribly outdated, though. What is that, Mark VII?”

 

Glancing down, Peter let out a little eep at the realization he was in the Iron Man pajamas May bought him last Christmas. He crossed his arms across his chest nervously. “Well, you know. They were on clearance.”

 

“Oh, _ouch_. Hit me where it hurts, why don’t you? Though I haven’t seen any Spiderman merchandise, clearance or otherwise. ”

With a quick look around the place, Mr. Stark took a seat on Peter’s bed, patting the spot beside him in invitation like it was his own room and not the teenager’s. Fumbling a bit, Peter sat down, running his hands over the tops of his legs in a restless motion.

 

“So…?”

 

With an expressive breath, Mr. Stark took out his phone and snapped it forward slightly, producing a holographic image of a file with the Stark logo and a name.

 

_Dr. Stephen Strange._

 

“Turns out Shield was good for something. I was able to access their archived security footage from around the globe for Friday to analyze, plus I had her scour social media, looking for a facial match or mention of his name.”

 

Heart pounding in his chest, the hairs on his arms standing on end, Peter leaned forward expectantly. “And?”

 

“And...well, see for yourself.”

 

The holographic folder flipped open, revealing several photos.

 

In the last few days, when Peter couldn’t help himself from fretting about what Friday would find, he’d considered several possibilities ranging from awful (it was a fake, his dad was dead, his dad had a new family that he’d abandoned Peter for) to simply nothing. Somehow, considering anything positive that would suitably explain his absence had given him the sensation of having a rock tucked under his ribs.

 

After all that theorizing and thought, the Instagram post Tony brought up on the holographic display was not exactly what he’d expected. Still, looking at the man who was clearly his dad...it took one weight off his shoulders and put another one on them. Hot and cold rolled down his body like waves, the contradictory sensations leaving him floundering.

 

“He’s...”

 

“Alive, if this and the rest of the footage Friday tracked down is to be believed.”

 

Peter’s stupor was momentarily distracted as he took in the content of the picture, his brow pinching as he recognized…

 

“Does that t-shirt say-”

 

“Yup. Your dad’s a One Directioner. Congratulations, kid.”

 

Indeed, his dad was wearing a rather loud, pink shirt with “Just Call Me the Future Mrs. Harry Styles” written in a garish cursive. He did not appear to be particularly pleased with his attire, though, a severe frown marring his features that spoke of a man at the end of his exhaustive rope. Beside him sat an incredibly smug looking East Asian man in Eastern style robes with a shaved head and a huge smile, one hand clearly holding the phone up for the selfie, the other pointed at Stephen. The caption beneath the image read “Today, Stephen learned the hard way that betting against me is the ‘Wong’ choice! ;D #Onedirection #harrystylesforever”

 

“Or rather, Mr…..” Mr. Stark leaned forward, squinting at the hologram. “So-wong-its-right is if you want to go by his Instagram handle. Which is a good thing, because otherwise we probably wouldn’t have been able to prove anything about your dad’s existence.”

 

Waving across the image, the page turned once again to show what looked like security footage taken from a camera. Not in the United States, though.

 

“Is that China?”

 

“Hong Kong, to be more precise. About six years ago. Facial recognition didn’t have any luck finding matches to your dad by himself, but when we found his buddy there, that was a whole new story.” Zooming in, the image focused on his father’s friend, strolling down a crowded street that was so atmospheric you could nearly smell it, some sort of club in his hand. Beside him, his face partly obscured by the tall collar of a bright red cloak, was a man that looked suspiciously like Stephen.

 

“See those pants and boots?” Mr. Stark zoomed in closer on said articles, the blue robes a similar Eastern style to the other man’s, with the addition of the cloak, the pattern on which looked oddly familiar. Turning back to the Instagram photo, Mr. Stark tapped on what could be seen of Stephen’s pants, the bright blue visible under the pink shirt.

 

“Based on his horrible taste in clothing and general appearance, we can be pretty damn sure that is also your dad there with this Wong character.”

 

“From six years ago…”

 

“Meaning that with these two images, we can already determine that he has been cropping up in places not only unrelated to you, but also since before your little run-in with the genetically modified arachnid.”

 

Okay, so that was...that was…“Shit...” Peter breathed, running a hand through his hair.

 

Mr. Stark leaned back, looking at Peter with raised brows and twitching lips. “Such language, Mister Parker.” Though his words were teasing, his tone was mild. “Though, to be fair to you, I think I’d have gone with something a lot less PG-rated after that bombshell.”

Peter mostly ignored him, reaching out to flick through the pages of the file. More images from security footage sped past him, showing similar levels of mysterious circumstances, with Wong and Stephen often appearing in areas that looked like they had recently experienced some kind of attack. And in each one, Stephen’s face was somehow blocked from view, either by the twisting of his body, something in his hands, or his cloak catching an unnatural looking wind.

 

“There is some weirdness here for sure. According to the archives, all of these locations received a sudden flux in activity-- alert messages, panic response, emergency personnel called to the scene-- and then whatever the trouble was just...vanished, right about the same time these two showed up. All of it. Like nothing had ever happened.”

 

Crossing his arms, Peter looked over the images carefully, seeking....something. The kind of something you knew was something only once you saw it. “What could cause that, though? And what does it have to do with my dad?”

 

Mr. Stark exhaled sharply through his nose. Resting his cheek in his hand, Mr. Stark inclined his head to the teenager. “Honestly, I don’t know, Pete. I haven’t seen anything like this. Shield never told the Avengers about it, because according to their records they determined it to be a low-level threat and just kept it monitored. At this point, your guess is as good as mine.”

 

“But do you have any kind of, like...intuition about it?”

 

“Nothing good.”

 

Chills instantly invaded Peter’s spine at his mentor's words. The feeling was close enough to his Spider-sense that it unnerved him some, fearing this was more premonition than normal human response. Either way, Peter’s own instincts mirrored his mentor’s: This was nothing good.

 

“There’s one last thing you should know.”

 

Blinking, Peter looked at Mr. Stark, whose face rapidly twitched with different emotions as he looked off into space. “Is this going to be one of those clichés like in movies where I’m going to hate what you say next because it suddenly makes everything a whole lot worse?”

 

“Oh, no, I know you’re going to love it. That’s why I’m so hesitant to tell you.” Flipping through several more pages, Mr. Stark landed on a close-cropped shot of Wong standing on a familiar looking street.

 

“That’s the street where I fought the Eldritch Horror! Bleecker Street, right?”

 

At Mr. Stark’s impressed glance, Peter shrugged one shoulder. “I have an eidetic memory.”

 

“Impressive, though I was marveling more over the Lovecraft reference. Didn’t know you were a fan of horror.”

 

“I’m not really, but MJ convinced me and Ned to help her start a group for Contemporary Cthulhu Worship at our middle school.”

 

“Cthulhu worship? Should I be worried that you three accidentally summoned the something on Bleecker Street?”

 

“No! We never did anything; MJ just wanted to protest the preferential treatment the Christian Group got.”

 

Tony raised an eyebrow.

 

“It’s a long story,” Peter demurred.

 

“Be that as it may…” Mr. Stark trailed off, motioning back to the hologram. “Friday tracked down several instances of this guy-- Wong apparently-- exiting and entering the same building on Bleecker from some more recent security cameras we…‘accessed’. She found some of your dad, too, albeit shielding his face as he seems to have a habit of doing. Including one just a few days ago.”

 

On the images dated for that past Friday, Stephen appeared strolling down the block, hands in his pockets and face turned down, dressed as he had been in the footage Karen recorded. The thick red scarf-- which closely resembled the pattern of the cloak in other photos, Peter realized-- wrapped snugly around his neck and concealing the lower half of his face. On the last slide, Stephen entered a peculiar looking brownstone.

 

“The address is 177A Bleecker Street.”

 

“You...you found where he _lives?_ ”

 

“Friday did,” Mr. Stark corrected. “Or we think we did. We can’t be quite sure.”

 

It eclipsed every expectation Peter had imagined, and he had imagined a _lot_ , especially considering he was supposed to avoid all speculation. His father was alive. Living in Greenwich Village. Living in _the same city_. Had been for who knows long, and yet…

 

Suddenly lightheaded, Peter released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and braced himself on his knees. A calloused hand rubbed at his back, Mr. Stark uttering a quiet “You’re alright” that barely registered in Peter’s shocked mind.

 

_In. Out. In. Out..._ It might have worked better if he couldn’t still hear that order in his father’s voice.

 

When he did regain some semblance of control, Peter quietly muttered, “Why would you tell me that he lives here?”

 

“I promised you all the data I could find, didn’t I?”

 

“Yeah, but….you know me. I can’t...I can’t just ignore that. I need to try to talk to him.”

 

Mr. Stark said nothing, continuing to rub Peter’s back. It was a grounding gesture and Peter focused on it as his mind began to stray towards the rocky shores of fear and self-loathing, left by his father’s apparent abandonment.

 

“You’re right. I know that about you. But, I also know what it’s like to have vital, life-altering facts withheld from you by someone you trust. Intimately. It’s not a fun feeling.”

 

“I don’t _like_ telling you,” Mr. Stark continued, moving his hand to grip Peter’s shoulder. “But as I see it, I don’t have a choice, not if I want to be able to live with myself. I’m just gonna have to trust you. And offer to go with you if you do want to meet your dad again.”

 

“You’d...do that?”

 

“Better believe it, underoos. You’re my only mentee, and I’m pretty partial to you at this point. Plus, it’d be hell training up someone new.” Mr. Stark ruffled Peter’s hair, continuing, “Not that I really have you trained all that well. Maybe I should start fresh with something easier to train than a teenager. Maybe a goldfish.”

 

“Mr. Stark…”

 

“Yeah, I know. No ethical pet store would sell me a goldfish. Guess I’m stuck with you.”

 

To his shame, Peter felt tears stinging his eye, and he wiped them away surreptitiously on the back of one hand. He suspected Mr. Stark pretended not to notice. “So that means I should probably keep you safe.”

 

Standing, Mr. Stark moved for the door, grousing as something in his left shoulder popped as he stretched. Peter watched numbly as he did something on his phone, swiping away the hologram and typing into its surface. “I’m sending the file to your computer so you can look through it. If you’ve got any questions, contact me. Day or night. I’m usually up both.”

 

The older man paused as he grasped the doorknob, looking back at Peter. His eyes held an unusually tender quality as he said, “I really hope you’ll take me up on my offer to go with you. I know he’s your dad, but we don’t have any clue what the hell is going on. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before, and I’ve seen most of what there is to phone home about.” As Mr. Stark pushed the door closed, he added, “Think about it.”

 

After he left, Peter sat in brooding contemplation, the image of his father’s brownstone etched into his mind.

 

***

 

When he was nine, Aunt May and Uncle Ben formally adopted him. Along with getting full custody of him now that his father was “dead,” the legal proceedings opened up a new possibility.

 

Changing Peter’s surname.

 

On some level, he’d wanted to stay Peter Strange. At the time he hadn’t been totally cognizant of it, but now Peter believed his desire stemmed from his need to keep even that small, tenuous connection to his father. Everything back then had been about that.

 

But Ben and May had looked so _hopeful_ when they suggested it, and the kids at school had taken to taunting him for being the Strange Orphan; the parentless freak.

 

So he’d accepted, and, mostly, he hadn’t looked back.

 

There were times since, though, when he wondered if he was denying a part of himself. Or hiding from it. Trying to cut off the part of himself that was a constant reminder of what he was missing, like a phantom limb, there and not there, forever itching but unable to be scratched.

 

The name had little influence in that regard, really. Significance is in the eye of the beholder, and something like a name can only hold so much power over you if you let it. It wasn’t the name, it was the origin.

 

It wasn’t Strange, it was his Dad.

 

Now, if Peter really wanted to be free of that drag, then as far as he could see he had two options. Cut it off the rest of the way, or reattach it.

 

And there was only one way for Peter to decide which course he wanted to take.

 

“Hey, Karen,” Petter said with forced cheer as he slipped on the mask. “I, uh, I really need you to do something for me.”

 

“ _Yes, Peter?_ ”  


“I need you to swear, I mean, swear up and down, invoke any protocols necessary to do it, that you won’t tell Mr. Stark what I am about to do.”

 

“ _That doesn’t sound very wise_ ,” she intoned. “ _It is my function to ensure your safety, and if calling Mr. Stark_ -”

 

“Karen, _please_ . I am literally begging you right now, okay? I just...I really need to do this on my own. If I get knocked out, or...or something, then fine. But please, _please_ give me a chance? I need this.”

 

There was brief silence on the line, during which Peter’s heart beat so furiously in his ears he wasn’t sure if he could have heard the AI’s reply if she made one. Finally, though, she spoke up.

 

“ _Direct alarms to Friday offline._ ”

 

Brushing at his eyes through his mask (for all the good it would do him), Peter let his body relax just slightly. “Thank you.”

 

“ _Please be careful, Peter. Mr. Stark had a point._ ”

 

“I know. He always does. And he’s probably right, logically. But this isn’t...”

 

It wasn’t about logic.

 

It was about closure.

 

When Peter heard no more from the AI, he took that as his cue to do this before he chickened out.

 

Glancing down from the roof of 177A Bleecker Street into the large, open window he’d spotted before, Peter leaped down, swinging into his father’s brownstone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you all kill me for another cliffhanger, I swear chapter 5 is flowing well and should be out next week. ;) 
> 
> Speaking of the next chapter...the next chapter is called "Coming Back to Life."


End file.
